


Nightmare

by Peggy_Cherepaha



Category: Original Work
Genre: Don't read if you are squeamish, don't read if you have triggers, i don't know what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 06:30:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5857831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peggy_Cherepaha/pseuds/Peggy_Cherepaha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the retelling of a nightmare I had, with minimal artistic liberty taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> If there is a deeper meaning to this, it is beyond me. Please don't read if you are squeamish or have triggers. My tumblr is peggy-cherepaha.tumblr.com

        I have just gotten out of the shower and am in the changing area. It’s just sheets hung from the ceiling by string to form crude stalls. I hear the girls in the other ‘stalls,’ chattering and giggling about the dresses they have been given. Mine is a form-fitting red gown with one shoulder strap and it is covered in glitter. None of us have had a chance to put anything on when our housemother comes by opening the curtains. The girls squeal as she explains that there are important people here, and that it’s alright for them to see us because they are women. I try to cover by breasts and crotch with my hands but they have already seen me and the other girls aren’t ashamed of their bodies so I just sit on the stepping stool that is in my changing stall and watch the women. They tell us they are from the committee for the President.  
“That’s why we gave you those lovely dresses to wear, you all have the honor of meeting President Moose.” I don’t want to do this.

        I’m a boy, but I don’t know if I’m the same person or not. I am not yet a teenager, but not too young, either. I am plain-looking. There are two girls with me; they call themselves my friends and are trying to tug me along with them. We are outside on a hill covered in dark, soft grass. The sky is overcast which dulls the hill even more. We are walking towards a large crowd that is cheering in excitement. They are surrounding the President. He is a felted plush that towers over the tallest people. He stands upright with stubby legs and arms. The plush antlers on one side are considerably larger than the other; it makes him ‘kooky.’ He is plush because it makes him friendly and comforting. Everyone loves him. I don’t like him.

        I am up close to the President. He moves, waving and walking and nodding his head at the crowd. The girls have left me; they love the President and they don’t want to be with me when I’m being ‘negative.’ The President walks up to me and leans over me. His hulking antlers cast a shadow over me. I can see little curly strings springing out from the felt, which is usually a pale green but has turned darker when be bent over. I feel smothered by his shadow as his beady eyes stare at me. I don’t want to be here.

        There is a row of tables at the edge of the crowd. They are decorated in bright colors and there are official-looking people sitting at them. They are recruitment benches, to get people to join the President. I am not allowed to join; my housemother said none of us are. I go up to one anyways so that I can turn my back to the President. The man I go up to looks right at me.  
“I want to take you,” he says.  
“I can’t join, my housemother…  
…oh.” _He wants to take me._  
He grins; the corners of his mouth stretch past his cheeks, nearly to his ears, and the rest of the skin on his face bunches up around his eyes. I don’t want to be taken.

        The man makes me wear a mask. It is white and made of rubber, and depicts a screaming head, bald and covered in protruding veins. Afterwards, I am laying on the bed, my muscles tense and shaking, but I cannot move from my position. He is sitting nearby, holding a cigarette and talking to himself.  
“You told me I had more time,” he says.  
As I watch, a large chunk of his bare chest pops out. The flesh around the hole left behind starts oozing white, chunky pus that starts foaming as it pours down his stomach. Then a gooey black liquid gushes from the hole, quickly coating the floor. I look up to his face to see if he will react, but his head has lolled back, his jaw slack and his skin deathly pale. I turn my head away, and lay there spread out on the bed, waiting for the black liquid to cover me. I want this to end.


End file.
